


Moleskin Waistcoat

by Tammany



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Missing Scene, Sentimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 21:45:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19343272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: I have costumed. It does things to you. So--this is a story filling in a missing moment, and addressing something my costumer's eyes are obsessed with.





	Moleskin Waistcoat

The very entry of Angel into Crowley’s flat seemed to alter the universe no less than Adam’s words and actions had. The cold, polished concrete floor, the stark walls, the echoing spaces decorated with only a scattering of ornate, totemic treasures, the fearful plants, the dim shadows and lances of light—everything seemed to turn on some invisible axis, to realign. What Crowley had always felt was appropriately demonic and stark suddenly seemed like a cheap bit of juvenile masochism. Entirely too emo. His throne, all gilt and gingerbread turnings and trim and carved work? Ridiculous: it wasn’t as though Crowley had ever ruled much of anything. And, yet, after a glance around, Angel said, in that upbeat, peppy voice, “Well! Well! This is very nice, now, isn’t it? Roomy.”

He took a step further into Crowley’s…well. No. Not “sanctum sanctorum,” Crowley thought. Entirely wrong! He struggled with long unused Latin. “Impium impiorum?” That seemed a bit odd. The Greek, something like “Anieros ton anieron” didn’t seem a lot better. He gave up on it.

“Right. Yeah. Nothing on yours. A bit stark. But, hey.” He caught Aziraphale’s elbow and turned him swiftly, pointing him away from the struggling angels at one end of the corridor, only to swear under his breath as the angel spotted the eagle lectern. The angel chirped welcome, and pulled free, scurrying straight through Crowley’s gothic dumb-show of an office to reach the terminal cove of the central hall. He stood in front of the eagle, and beamed.

“I know that piece. I do. I know…oh!” He spun and gave Crowley one of those heartbreaking, irresistible smiles. Even through weariness and the grub and dust of the day, he shone, a light in Crowley’s darkness. “From the church where you saved me!”

Damn you, Angel. Don’t melt. Don’t. Don’t-don’t-don’t, or I will melt, too.”

Crowley shrugged. “Might be. Place was hit pretty bad. I’m sure there was pilfering.”

He was sure. He’d been on it like a car bonnet, himself. Not that he’d gone to the church for that specifically. No. He’d gone back to check the holy water font, garbed in appropriately protective gear that had blended in well enough with the various fire wardens and emergency personnel out on the streets after the bombers had passed. But once he’d realized the font had tipped over and the water already run off and dried, well…

It was just standing there, after all. Not like it had a church that needed it, now. No one would miss it. And it might look good in the bay window of the hotel suite he’d been living in at the time. It was a matter of a mere second to hoist it over his shoulder and scarper off with it. He never quite let himself admit that every time he saw it he recalled the sweet, wondering, enchanted look Aziraphale had turned on him when he’d handed him that doctor’s bag of books…

No more than he let himself admit, quite, that every time he looked at the wrestling angels he smiled a tiny, wry smile, before turning away shaking his head.

Better not to think about it, after all. But he had owned the wrestling angels since the Terror. He’d bought it off a man who’d pillaged his late master’s estate, and it was the first thing he placed in any new place he resided…

He forced himself to turn away from Aziraphale’s glowing smile. “C’mon…you can stay in m’ spare.” He led the angel back, expanding his width ever so slightly and hoping Aziraphale didn’t notice. He didn’t need Angel to spot that statue, next.

He opened the door and stepped aside. Aziraphale stepped warily through and glanced around.

“Very…nice,” he said, cautiously.

“It does the job.”

Aziraphale glanced quickly at Crowley and back. “I’m sure your guests are impressed.”

Crowley shrugged. He usually only had two kinds of guests—demons in need of a base of operations for a few days, and human contacts in similar need. Both were best intimidated. The guest bedroom was vast, and bleak, blending the best of modern stripped down style with the best of good old fashioned Giant Bed on a Great Big Pedestal pomp and circumstance.

“Bathroom’s off through that door,” he said. “I’ll let you get on with it.”

He escaped, nearly slamming the door behind him.

He hadn’t considered the emotional challenge of having Angel stay over. It somehow put everything on a whole new footing—and not a nice, stable footing, either.

He didn’t dare pull a miracle—too much chance Angel would notice. Instead he scrambled to push some of his tallest, densest plants to hide the statue, all the while muttering threats and pleas together that they hide-hide-hide it. Then he sloped off to the kitchen to look for a bottle of gin—only to scuttle back, frantic, as he realized there were no towels in the guest bathroom. He grabbed a clutch from the closet—then tapped warily at the door of the guest bedroom.

No answer. He slipped in, shouting, “Sorry. Towels.” He rushed to the door of the bathroom, and tapped again. “Angel, got some towels for you.”

The door cracked open, and Aziraphale’s pale, tired face peered back out. He saw the towels and brightened up. His hand snaked through the door and accepted the towels. “Oh, good. I must say, Crowley, you’ve done a bang-up job, here! I could go swimming in the tub!”

“Make yourself at home,” Crowley said, determined not to think about Angel swimming around the Olympic size bathtub. “There’s bath gel in the dresser to your left.”

“Patchouli?” Aziraphale’s tone was hopeful.

“Probably paisley, if you want.” He’d stocked it quite thoroughly, buying up entire lines of bath products.

“Oooh! That will be a treat! Ta! Out in a bit.” Angel’s face disappeared, and the door clicked.

One more challenge dealt with. Crowley turned and stalked toward the suite door…

Until he spotted Angel’s neatly folded clothing.

The camel suit looked limp and dead without the angel in it.

The angel had kept it for over a hundred and eighty years—as cherished as Crowley’s Bentley had been to him. He put out a finger, stroked the worn moleskin of the waistcoat, and smiled, fondly. Angel took care of it. It was probably held together with hope, though. Crowley unfolded the waistcoat, shaking his head, examining it. He reached out with his senses, trying to feel what Aziraphale had felt at the former convent of the Chattering Nuns. Yes….yes, he could just barely sense it.

The waistcoat felt…loved.

But oh, look at it. One hundred and eighty years of use! The nap of the moleskin worn away around each buttonhole and each long-established wrinkle to accommodate a body in motion—or not, as the case may be. And where the watch-chain swung, back and forth, back and forth, and where Aziraphale reached and touched and fiddled with fobs and so on? Bald, quite bald…

Crowley smiled, recalling Angel’s puppy-eyed pleading for Crowley to spend one of his own miracles to repair his suit, after it was hit with paintballs…

Not even thinking, he stroked the fabric, eyes closing. He leaned over—and blew, gently, his breath moving over the cloth.

Like grass in spring, the nap grew back—first covering the bald spots, then reinforcing the rest of the garment, reviving the old moleskin, thickening it, making it new again. Silk edgings were restored. The buttons gleamed.

The miracle expanded. The camel coat was refreshed. The trousers regained their former gleaming glory—in Victoria’s day when you bought a good suit, it was a very good suit indeed.

Only when the entire ensemble was fresh and crisp and beautiful did Crowley slowly let the miracle fade.

Behind him, Aziraphale’s voice was gentle. “That was…kind, Crowley.”

“Shut up. I’m not kind,” Crowley said. But he didn’t look back. He didn’t dare. A thousand wrestling angels, a million-billion eagle lecterns, nothing could be as revealing as this miracle—and his expression on being caught out, heart on his sleeve this way. He let the waistcoat fall from his fingers. “What do you want for dinner, Angel? I can call out for anything you like.”

After a moment, Aziraphale said, simply, “Oh, bollocks. Pizza. Pizza will be fine.”

One corner of Crowley’s mouth twitched up. So Angel would let it go…for now. He nodded. “If I recall, you’re a purist. A Margherita pizza, then?”

“That would be perfect.”

Crowley sloped away, never looking back. So he never saw the look of love in his Angel’s eyes, as he stood dripping with a towel around his waist. Nor did he see his Angel inspect his now-perfect suit, and smile.

Aziraphale would have to create a less perfect copy for everyday. People would notice a thing like a suit suddenly rejuvenated. But—tonight he would wear it. For his demon, who was too kind for his own good.   
  
Dear Crowley, he thought, as his eyes blurred--just a bit. Dear, dear Crowley. His darling boy...


End file.
